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Yazova disappeared without a trace, as if there had never been one named Yazova in the world, and no one would have cared if someone with such a name had ever existed.
The first person to discover it was the newsboy who came every morning to deliver the newspaper.
Several of the nearby secure housing apartments were newly built at the expense of the new government after the change of leadership - they cut back on the construction project of bomb shelters, and threw the surplus into the people's welfare. The first in the list was housing, and the guaranteed housing gradually radiated from Omsk city across the New League. It was still wartime, but the boys like the young newsboy, who was no older than eleven or twelve, no longer had to go into the factories early and face production line work from day to night. He had also earned the opportunity to use the few hours before the school (yes, more schools were constructed too) to deliver newspapers to the residential buildings on this street, earning a few more kopecks for his family. Still, life didn't get easier; his two legs were merely moved from the training ground and the factory to the street moment by moment. He remembered this woman who lives on the first floor; there are one hundred fifty-eight households on this street, which was far from full, and it was this woman who left the deepest impression on him.
He remembered how he was startled by the woman when he knocked on the narrow, hollow, red-painted wooden door for the first time. The woman was a little taller than his mother, and he could only look up at her with his neck craned up. The crack in the door was so narrow that he couldn't see the furniture inside, but only the woman's legs and her cane. She was a cripple, and she made no effort to conceal that. The woman looked at him with heavy shadows hanging under her eyes and a sullen face which was more frightening than his mother's drunken face. He had to suppress his fear and take out a stack of freshly cut newspapers with the pungent odor of ink, handing them to the woman. The woman simply said "Thank you" and quickly closed the door.
He always thought the gloomy face looked familiar, but when he tried to ask his mother about it at night after the school, he couldn't remember any of the woman's features. Under her gaze, all he could come up with was "A scary-looking woman, with a broken leg". His mother didn't pay any attention to the description, and casually said that she was probably a veteran of the old League, then urged him to do the housework. The family's life had never improved since the boy’s father's departure, and the boy only knew that his father had joined the Black League's army, a term that had become unfamiliar, and news of his father had also disappeared with the step-down of the Black League. But his mother's casual remark had put him carefully into his memory, and he longed to know where his father was much more than his mother did.
After that, he was still delivering newspapers. Since there were no other residents on the woman's floor and she was the only occupant, he could exchange a few words with her in the hallway. The woman always opened the door looking tired and haggard, taking the newspaper with her callous hands. And there was no other response but "Thank you" and "I’m appreciated." Sometimes he knocked more than three times and no one answered, so he had to put the paper on the floor and leave quietly; other times he would see a man standing in front of the door, waiting for someone, and he could only put the paper on the floor silently; some other times he would bump into an officer in a new regulation uniform, and then realized the officer was looking for that woman. Boy was sure that the woman who lived behind the red hollow wooden door was surely a veteran who had returned from the battlefield, and out of admiration for the soldier (and his father), he even came up with a heroic story for the woman's injured leg.
He had only one chance to inquire. That day he was about to put down his newspaper and turn to leave, and then he saw the woman hobbling into the apartment building, using her cane to support her weight as she walked up the steps. He rushed to help her, but the woman gently evaded and refused his help. "Your father must have taught you well." It was the only completed sentence she had said in over a year. But he shook his head, saying that his father had been in the army like the woman and hadn't been home for years, then he asked the woman if she had ever been to the Redemptionary Brigade. Probably because the child was too ignorant, he didn't notice woman’s whitened knuckles clutching her cane, nor her shaky breathing. He simply stared at her expressionless face, waiting for an answer.
For a few moments, the woman was silent. Then she apologized for twice, added that she had no idea where his father was and hurried home, leaving the despondent newsboy behind. From then on, the paperboy never saw the woman again, but the newspaper he left every morning would disappear by the next morning. Until one day in the winter, he found the newspapers he had left on the concrete floor accumulated in front of the woman's house, piled up like a mountain, and no one came back to clean them up. Only then did he realize that there was no one behind the door anymore.
The second one making the discovery was a colonel in the New League's Ministry of the Interior.
It took him a week to find out Yazova had disappeared without a trace. He hastily wrote a report after canvessing the whole neighborhood on the street, and submitted it to Comrade General Secretary. There was not much to talk about his duty; the only thing he was responsible for was monitoring the rehabilitation of prisoners from the former regime, which didn't seem all that important in the current days of turmoil. Most of his fellow comrades had been officers in Tyumen, or had come from Sverdlovsk, and a few had been extradited here from the collapsed Red regimes in the Far East. They were all experienced professionals, firm and righteous, and were currently traveling across the new League searching for remnants of the former government and reactionaries. He was the only one who had been temporarily promoted a level to fill a vacancy due to a shortage of manpower, to do some clerical work about prisoners with which he was intimately familiar with.
In this case alone, he might have to thank the newly appointed Comrade General Secretary for this lenient treatment. As a lieutenant colonel in the Black League’s Department of Clandestine Inquest, he was reviled by all. Perhaps it was intuition that saved him, or perhaps it was the numbness after years of working in the Black League pushed him over to the General Secretary's side. He relied so much on his political sense to hope that the Glavkoverkh's renegade adjutant, now the General Secretary, would be able to successfully take a firm footing on power, thus he, the little lieutenant colonel, would survive the situation. As for the diehard loyalists who had blood on their hands, they went to their graves through the sweeping extermination led by the General Secretary. He had even faced the death of his old superior, Yuri Drozdov, whom he had met only a few times, the blade-like man falling limply on the execution ground, while his dark red blood soaking through the withered weeds, then seeping into the crusty earth. He did mourn for Drozdov in his heart for a long time - after all, Drozdov had always been a responsible officer. But this execution was the reminder from General Secretary of how hard-won his chances of survival were, and he knew that wholeheartedly.
His experience as a Black League officer had also caused him some troubles, with disgruntled people saying he’s a duplicitous and untrustworthy person. However, the General Secretary had no problem with that, instead, he assigned him a new position one-on-one at the beginning of his new leadership, asking him to keep an eye on some of the Black League's top brass who had just returned to society (or rather: house arrest), and to submit a weekly report. The numbers were not large, and the ministers who survived were all listed here, dispersed in different parts of the capital for administrative reasons. So even with the extra work that he needed to across the capital and visit them regularly, the intensity of the work was still not comparable to that of his colleagues - it was almost a kind of exile to him.
There was nothing difficult about it. Regular visits, consolidating the information from surveillance, and things naturally wouldn’t go out of control. But none of the visits happened in a peaceful and calm atmosphere. Sakharovsky greeted him with silent, disgusted glances, and sometimes he called him a shameless socialist pawn. Pitovranov was much more straightforward, simply shut the door, and unwilling to compromise until he make a more direct threat - a bullet in the door lock. Karpov was the nicest of them all - at least he had the decency to greet him properly, with some manners, like all intellectuals.
Doubts remained in his mind as he worked, if they were so averse to the second chance the new regime had given them, they should have ended themselves before they were thrown into the cage. But that was not for him to think about. The bullet-like cold words from a group of people who didn't even own guns sounded soft and weak. Every time before metting any former minister, he would touch the holster on the side of his waist, which gave him a little more confidence. However, the confidence he had saved up would always be gone when he faced the Glavkoverkh - though the Glavkoverkh was history now. Now it should be Yazova, and only Yazova, he reminded himself.
When he learned of the Glavkoverkh survived the trial, a deep chill crept down his spine. She was a woman never soft on traitors, but she had survived. He wondered who was the traitor had betrayed the Three Theses, him or Yazova? Yazova in her first visit was calm, as if she accepted the fact that she was under surveillance and house arrest long ago, and obediently answered questions without hesitation. He tried to stare at Yazova’s grim face, but flinched as he met her gaze. Once this face had appeared on lecterns and in newspapers, a face that rang the death knell, urging him and millions like him to the path of mutual destruction. It was also the face of an ordinary middle-aged woman, gaunt, with visible fines and wrinkles, ready to drown and disappear into the crowd. He suppressed his unease and took shorthand notes on Yazova's answer.
"I recognize this face." Yazova said suddenly after scrutinizing him for a few moments. Her voice startled him so much that his heart skipped a beat, and he could only mumble incoherently a nasal babble.
"Which department were you under? Or... you were in the army?" Yazova echoed each word carefully. She was wearing shoddy shirt and pants, and was lack of a handkerchief to wrap around her curly hair. This Yazova, this miserable woman who suffer from the downfall, pressed him to lift his head with a plain question. He could only skip the question, and write down the last word of Yazova’s answer. He got up, thanked Yazova for her cooperation, and left her apartment at a rapid pace with his whole body stiffening under her watchful eye. Before submitting his report, he abused his power a little bit, intentionally deleted Yazova's extraneous questions.
Fortunately, the General Secretary did not notice the subtle blank, simply encouraged him, telling him not to be nervous when facing those people, and half-jokingly pointing out that the content of his report was somewhat superficial. Working in the New League was different from Black League, as the General Secretary tried to dispel the haze of the previous leadership, emphasizing responsibility to people while also focusing on humanitarianism. He even ordered everyone to treat those former Black League top brass who were under house arrest in the same way as ordinary people, "Everyone deserve a basic measure of dignity, including them." The fact that the General Secretary took time out of his busy schedule to greet him warmly, and show him respect, made him feeling inwardly thankful that he was indeed standing with the right side - only people like the General Secretary could find the best way out of dire situation in Russia.
Yazova asked her second questions six months later. She was sweeping at that time, while her leg injury making her movements a bit clumsy, and she had to balance herself on the broom to answer his inquiries. When Yazova called out to him in parting, the sarcasm in her tone had already vanished , and her eyes were no longer sharp. She asked him in a hoarse voice, "What did he promise you that day?"
The one she mentioned, naturally, was the General Secretary. Yazova had known that it was he who had signaled General Batov's troops to infiltrate, but for months she had never questioned him about it, and her question at the moment only made him feeling relieved. He finally had the courage to look Yazova back in the eye.
"Nothing." He said, and Yazova's eyelids fluttered, "Comrade General Secretary is a pragmatic man. He did not offer a bribe, or promised any promotion."
Yazova chuckled softly, as if she heard an outrageous joke, "Pragmatic... That's not like him."
Suddenly, he bored with Yazova's sneer, and lost the patience to listen to how she recalled the General Secretary. He frowned and turned away, leaving Yazova alone in the cramped apartment, staring at the floor, shoulders shaking and laughing miserably. The General Secretary had never promised him anything, but his two not-so-long-born children had a future where they didn't have to follow his path. Because of that, he would be grateful for the rest of his life for his decision to completely standing with the General Secretary.
Since then Yazova turned much more restrained, perhaps because she finally realized how ridiculous she was, and had stopped talking about the coup. For a long time, she remined apathetic during the inquiries. The colonel was subconsciously anxious when he found out Yazova vanished, but he could only calm down and tried to remember something useful - he remembered that the General Secretary had given those prisoners (especially Yazova) enough freedom. He assumed it was common for them to be out of the apartment for one day. Not to mention the fact that he had their every movement in his records, and it would be easy to find out where exactly they were, but firstly he had to gather the materials to inform the comerade General Secretary.
He knocked on the office door in a hurry. The General Secretary did not say "please come in" - he was sitting at the desk, holding the forehead and pondering. He looked up staring at the colonel, whose heart trembled at the scene: he almost mistook the General Secretary for the former Glavkoverkh for his tired and estranged look. But in a blink of an eye, the expression was gone and the General Secretary was still that easy-going young man, asking him what happened. He told him everything, and put the provisional investigation report on the General Secretary’s desk. The General Secretary listened to his account in silence, following a long sigh, told him to work as usual - after all it was not his fault. At the end, the Genearl Secretary also urged him to pay attention to the railroads departure information from Omsk in these days.
He nodded, thanked the General Secretary, and exited the office, breathing in relief.
Sablin was perhaps the last person to notice Yazova's disappearance up to this point, though he was not willing to confess that he would spend time on this matter. He had thought that the report should have come to him much earlier once it happened. But on second thoughts, he had already withdrawn the officers of surveillance early on for understaffing of other departments, leaving a colonel to run the most basic of investigations. There were too many things in the new government far more important than reforming reactionaries, and he shouldn't be bothered by this unimportant matter.
He ordered the colonel to leave, but his hands still pinched a letter received a month ago, which carried a vague smell of gunpower on the crumpled paper. When he first unfolded it, a lot of dried grass clippings fell on the desk, implying that the writer must have written it in a hurry - the handwriting was illegible. But Sablin was so familiar with the tone in this letter, and he even thought the writer had died for years.
The letter was sent by Otto Braun, and Sablin had no idea how his mentor managed to send it across the whole Siberia. The second Sablin got his hands on the envelope, it was as miserable as if it had been ravaged, for the vellum was stained with sweat, blood dots, dirt, dust, and other smudges, and the original color of the paper could hardly be seen. Sablin read the letter over and over again in his spare time these days, trying to imprint every word in his mind, fearing that he might miss a single detail about Braun's whereabouts. However, the letter kept reticent on these matters, perhaps out of fear that enemies would intercept the letter and take the oppotunity to annihilate them. Braun only mentioned that he was still guerrilla fighting on the Far East steppes with some names familiar to Sablin, such as Pechuro, and jokingly said that he felt back to his days in Yan'an. Between the lines, he warned Sablin not to venture deep into the Far East, until he had rooted in Western Siberia. If not for Braun sternly told him not to reply, Sablin would have written a letter immediately. If the conditions to send a telegram was ripe enough, he would have told Braun that he had no longer that fledgling boy who still need his advice for every action.
What if Braun wanted to know how he had grown like this? Sablin pondered over the letter for a long time, but unable to find a single word he could tell Braun. What else he could say? He learned all these thunderous tactics from the Glavkoverkh of the Black League? He acquired numerous favors from the Glavkoverkh by capitalizing on some of his...advantage? No matter how he tried to conceal everything, what happened in his past still had reached a level that Braun could not accept. As for the truth behind it, the truth that even General Batov and Comrade Karbysheva did not know, that he had taken advantage of the Glavkoverkh's feelings, Sablin could only bury this secret, hoping that someday this secret would go with him and Yazova into the grave.
Sablin was caught in worries again. He eagered to go east for countless times, but the internal problems of the New League had not been solved yet. After all, the transformation in the society was not something that could be done in a year, it required countless people to operate tirelessly to remould this war machine into a factory for people’s welfare. In order to alleviate the external threats, Sablin sent official letters to almost every socialist regime he could find respectively once he took the leadership, requesting alliances or supplies. But all he received after a long wait, was an informal commitment from the Western Russia Revolutionary Front, companying the stagnant silence from other socialist regimes. The New League, with its great ideological rift within, was not trustworthy to other leaders. After all, how could they help a distant ally when they were too distracted to face an immediate enemy? Sablin finally realized that the New League became an orphan in Siberia.
Though Sablin had a decision-making circle under him for long, the responsibility brought by the identity as General Secretary was still stressful, and it took a few months for him to get used to it. Sablin was even a little surprised in his trance. During the days when he helped Yazova share the stress in politics, he was also dealing with the isolation of the Black League, but the pressure was nowhere near as tiresome as it was now. Sablin was somehow curious about how Yazova felt - he had asked Yazova how she had handled the Abakumov’s coup when she first came to power, secretly trying to learn something from the case. But Yazova's answer was surprising: she hadn't been entirely sure what to do at first. They were close enough during that time that Yazova wouldn’t unleash her fury when she heard the question. She simply stared at Sablin in silence for a moment before giving her answer.
"No one is born to be a political master. Neither am I." Yazova's tone sounded too gentle for her, "I'm just imitating General Karbyshev, wearing his coat. Nothing more."
At the time, Sablin had only thought it was a modest statement. The fashioned personal cult frenzy to the Glavkoverkh in the Black League made it less believable. But only now Sablin realized that perhaps it was the only truth Yazova had ever said after years of cloaking herself as Glavkoverkh.
Yazova surpassed the old general in totalitarianism as his best protege, broke away from intimidation early on, years later causing many problems for the New League. Decapitations could not quickly convince the army, or the powerful departments. Even General Batov, relying on his fame from the West-Russian War, could only suppress some of the former officers, and Sablin had to carry out a major turnover in key positions - which meant he would lose quite a lot of resources, and weaken part of the military superiority that Yazova had cultivated before.
Even more problematic was the ongoing sabotage from the remnants of the Black League, which had to thank to the cronies that Yazova once promoted, especially Lazarenko and his fanatics: they mobilized remnants, assassinated new officers, set fires in the city, and attempted to destroy the newly established factories with explosives, claiming that it was all for the sake of the Glavkoverkh. The imprisoned former top brass naturally had nothing to say about, unless they decisively betrayed the organizers behind it; any statement would turn into a knife against themselves, so silence was their best option. Torture was not what the New League would do, and even if the group of top brass knew something (and that was a given), Sablin could not get any information in a honorable way.
Unluckily, Yazova tried to commit suicide during the peak of the terror attacks, yet was detected by the prison guards, who forced her to stop on the spot. Sablin had personally arraigned Yazova, who was still being rehabilitated in prison, over the matter. Not long after their "open and honest" conversation right before the coup, Yazova faced Sablin with a much more haggard face at that day. She lost all the energy she had, but Sablin still remember - not long ago she denounced the General Secretary as a traitor to her and to mother Russia.
At first Sablin suspected that Yazova had something to do with the attackers, so she chose to commit suicide. Before entering the interrogation room, he thought about how to get the name of the moles who tipped off the prison from Yazova, but as it turned out, Yazova knew nothing of it. She only looked up at Sablin after learning of the attacker's statement that they had done it "for the Glavkoverkh". She choked for a moment, and asked the General Secretary to reintroduce the death sentence in the first trial of the war court.
"I’m not an executioner," Sablin replied to Yazova, emotionless, "and I don’t want you to impose that title on me."
Yazova lowered her head again, staring in silence at the edge of the table.
"Your own life is not a bargaining chip for negotiations or threats." Sablin tapped on the table, "You will not suicide. I know, because you dare not."
There was an awkward silence in the interrogation room. Yazova trembled slightly while Sablin's eyes fell on her face. She still kept a numb expression. Sablin didn't know how to continue the conversation, she was the "hero" of the Black League, a sinner of the New League, but the one who sitting in front of him was an ordinary middle-aged woman, fainthearted and bore, uncomfortable with his words.
The interrogation was unproductive, but Sablin was not discouraged at all. He stood up and signaled the guards outside to open the door, and to prepare to take Yazova away. Before the end of interrogation, Yazova asked Sablin one last time, "How is my confession worth to you?"
"I don't know neither." Sablin looked down at Yazova, who was sitting in a chair, then answered wholeheartedly, "But comparing to your death, it is worth a little more... both to Russia and the New League."
Penitent Glavkoverkh, an excellent political propaganda material to highlight the New League's tolerance, could be used to stabilize the frenzy situation that Yazova had once set in motion. Sablin, who became the man he once disgusted before realizing it, sometimes wanted to show more sympathy, just a little more to ease Yazova. But General Batov and Karbysheva, who lived through the West-Russian War, cautioned him: do not try to empathize with your enemy.
This advice was indeed gems of wisdom, and his efficiency in advancing the decision-making process had risen considerably due to the removal of external interference. On the day of Lazarenko's execution, Sablin shot this maniac follower of Glavkoverkh by himself, feeling nothing but relief. The only fate for those absconding Black League officers, those terror attack orchestrators, was pitched black death. Sablin did not spend too much energy on how to deal with those diehard remnants, the priority of his work thereafter gradually turned to raising the production, and he began to draw up the prototype of the Five-Year Plan. Sablin's time was divided between his office in the depths of the Prism and the factories of Omsk. The tiresome days and nights stole the gentle smile from his face, robbed his carefree privileges as the youth.
Eventually, without a word, Yazova returned from nowhere to her apartment in Omsk, alone, without any luggage, not even daring to touch the light of the streetlamps in the dead of night. She bypassed the colonel's watchful eye and walked slowly back to the door of her apartment. A warm, shimmering light filtered through the doorway, covering the cement floor. Yazova closed her eyes and sighed, fumbling for the key. It took her a few minutes to open the door, as if the act of opening it had drained her of a lifetime's worth of courage.
The narrow apartment was more like a room - with a hardboard bed, a desk, a chair, a bookcase, a crude chandelier, and that was all. But there was an unexpected person sitting on the edge of bed. Yazova stood in the doorway for a long time, stumbling to enter.
Sablin was going through the manuscripts Yazova had piled up on the table before leaving, his eyes fixed on the paper without lifting his head. After a long silence, he reached out to greet, "Are you so afraid to return your own home?"
Yazova didn't move a muscle, and after a few moments of stalemate between the two of them, Yazova resigned herself to entering the room, turning and closing the door gently behind her, hearing the man behind her commenting on her manuscript.
"It's more profound than what I saw in your night school, not bad." Sablin casually gathered up the manuscript paper he had turned over, stacked it on the table and pushed it into the corner, "There were almost half a man's worth of newspapers by the door. I cleaned them up."
Yazova pursed her lips and didn't look directly at Sablin, knowing full well that Sablin wouldn't look her back, "...Thank you, General Secretary. But you didn't have to come. I’m not worth of your time."
"The time's too late. The inspection spot is far from the Prism Castle than I expected. Consider me just passing by." The implication was clear, "You know I have the key."
"I'm not surprised." Yazova unbuttoned her coat and hung it on the back of the door; she had survived the entire winter with this coat, which seemingly didn't keep her warm.
"You came back in a hurry after you hearing from the broadcast that I was going to leave for Omsk, why?"
Without making any noise, Yazova pulled away the only chair, sitting on it, and distanced herself from Sablin.
"You disappeared for an entire winter, thinking you could get rid of all the troubles behind you. Will that bring you some peace in your heart?" Sablin frowned, "I'm too busy, and too exhausted to deal with the troubles you caused, but I still have to do it."
Yazova took a deep breath, wanting to speak, and Sablin continued to himself, stopped her from saying anything.
"Of course, as you said, I don’t have to come here. I could have gone back on my word, abandoned you, and left you lost and unattended in the cold wild. What do you think my promises, a General Secretary’s promises are? An hare that would disappear at any time? Being the General Secretary but betraying everything I promised, is that what you want me to do?"
"I’m so glad... I can still be such a serious threat in your eyes after so many years." Yazova kept her gaze down, staring at Sablin's boots. The mud and dirty water were drying on the surface, caking into spots of dirt. The young man had traveled in such a hurry that he hadn't even had time to wipe the dirts off.
"I'm tired of your sarcasm..." Sablin's voice weakened, his hand on the desk clenching into a fist, "How can anyone leave the city on foot without any luggage? Taking a train and getting off in the almost wilderness and then disappearing for a winter in the wilderness of Siberia, I know what you tried to do..."
"You know I dare not."
"I know, and I know you will not do so in the future... You have your freedom now, at least much more freedom than other bureaucrats under house arrest."
"I appreciate your efforts..."
"No, no. That’s not what I meant. I don't understand, Dmitriya Timofeyevna, you must be hiding from something. You... you fear the change itself, avoiding it at any cost. Haven't I proved myself right?" Sablin's tone rose sharply, his teeth nearly biting his tongue as he did his best to restrain himself from speaking aloud, "Have I not made this place better? I have given nearly all of myself to Russia, just like you. Look around, Dmitriya. Am I, am I not working hard enough to convince you? Why?"
Sablin finished his sentence, only to realize that he almost stood up which made himself looking like threatening Yazova. He lowered his head and sat back down in frustration. Yazova cringed a little at this emotional Sablin, gritting her teeth so she could hold still. This wasn't like her, Sablin thought.
Yazova didn't respond; there was nothing to respond to. She looked up and saw Sablin's face, which was averted to one side in annoyance, etched with exhaustion. Every detail on Sablin inplied his unease: his bloodshot eyes and dark circles under the eyes, newly emerging unshaven stubble; and the lingering, looming scent of alcohol on his body.
"Took vodka again?" Yazova asked softly.
Sablin froze. He was about to say something, but he just reined in his agitation and nodded heavily, admitting, "Only a little. Before coming here."
Instead of urging Sablin to give up alcohol as she had done before, Yazova simply nodded, and Sablin found himself still a little uncomfortable with the vagueness of her manner.
"Never mind... You just, argh... I'm probably too exhausted." Sablin said sullenly, leaning his whole body against the wall, yawning widely. He reached up and rubbed his chin, his fingers tracing over it, brought a harsh sound, "Is the razor still here?"
For the sake of that "daring not commit suicide", it was one of the few sharp objects Yazova was allowed to keep. It was smoother than a regular pocket knife, thus Sablin sometimes borrowed for shaving when he came over to visit. Yazova pulled a desk drawer, which was stuck for being unused for the whole winter, and found that older folding razor in it, handing it to Sablin.
Sablin took the razor, went straight to fetch a basin of water and placed it on the desk. He unfolded the razor and dipped it in the water, trying to hold it close to his chin. In the end, he took a deep breath, turned to Yazova, "I'm too tired to hold the razor. Do me a favor. "
Yazova retrieved the razor, weighed it in her hand. Sablin was now sitting on the bed across from her, waiting for Yazova to make her move. She shook the water droplets off the blade and dipped her other hand into the water, wiping the lower half of Sablin's face wet, "Aren’t you afraid of me? I could kill you too." She sounded like purring, like a lover’s whisper.
"Only the enemy never hesitate to slit my throat," Sablin closed his eyes and bared his throat, allowing Yazova to pinch his jaw and glide the razor blade across his face, "It took you too long... "
Yazova was not good at shaving beard for people, for her moves were much slower than others. Before the shaving ended, Sablin was too sleepy to hold his head. His chin rested on Yazova's palm while he was about to fall asleep. His head was lowered and almost let Yazova's blade cut through his pale skin. Yazova put away the razor, then found a handkerchief, gently wiped away the water droplets on Sablin's face. She couldn’t help marveling in her heart at how quickly Sablin had matured. He was less than thirty years old, but had already become a backbone of the country, a soul of the League. It wasn't so long ago that he was clearly a youth, and the only thing she wanted was to keep him under her wings, kissing him more than a thousand times. But then in the blink of an eye, she was pushed into the heap of failure by Sablin. Yazova threw the razor and the handkerchief into the water basin, but she didn't even get a chance to pour the water - Sablin fell on her body as she got up and crossed over to him to tidy the bed.
Yazova sensed something. She gently pushed Sablin, the honorable comrade General Secretary just grunted. Yazova had no choice but to follow the direction in which Sablin had collapsed, holding his head gently, and sitting down on the edge of the bed. She carefully let Sablin lie down on her laps, served as his pillow.
Look at him, how peacefully and calmly he slept. Yazova reached out and gently patted Sablin's shoulder, her other hand brushing the curly hair away from Sablin's forehead. She took her greatest fear into her arms, patting her remorse to help him sleep - her longing and hope lurking in this man.
But he had to leave eventually, just like the dawn will always come. Yazova thought, brushing her palm across Sablin's cheek and bowing her head deeply.